


My Life Is Clover (it's just bad luck)

by CravenWyvern



Series: Previously Punned [7]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 22:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Wilson P. Higgsbury has lived in the Constant for a really long time now.Things change, especially after the Nightmare Throne.





	My Life Is Clover (it's just bad luck)

**Author's Note:**

> Asdafafsfa I've been writing a lot of drabbles and useless things lately and
> 
> Idk, I wanted to write character shit, and also refrence all that old stuff
> 
> And Wilson mostly has all his shit together now (er, mostly) while Maxwell's sitting there being useless

“Do you believe in love, Higgsbury?”

Wilson stopped what he was doing, claws wrapped around sticks and ropes and other flimsy objects, looking up sharply at the man who he had oh so graciously allowed to camp with him. The lanky former King sat by the fire pit on the fallen tree Wilson had gotten that lumberjack to set up for him awhile back, hunched over and limbs pulled close, hands clasped loosely together. From this angle, the fire dancing the shadows about and the moons half full glow only bathing the topmost leaves of the trees, Maxwell looked even thinner and smaller than usual.

All curled in, like a dying spider.

“...And what brought that on, may I ask?” Wilson's brow furrowed, mouth a thin line and dark eyes narrowed at the mans boney back, his claws slowly setting his supplies back down on his shoddy workbench. He could probably work on nets and rods while talking, but this was a rather unusual inquiry.

Especially from the man he had once fully believed to be a demon in all aspects. It was rather odd, hearing the word “love” come out of the mouth of the man least likely to even know such things.

“Oh, nothing, nothing in particular, just-” Maxwell waved his hands about, some sort of nervous gesture or other, and Wilson turned on his crooked stool to watch the man curl himself even more, head bowed and arms crossing together. “-just wondering.”

Wilson jiggled his leg, shoe tapping into the padded, bare earth he still had plans to cover, and carefully scratched a clawed hand over his scruffy chin, the beginnings of a beard having made itself known yesterday morning. 

It wasn't exactly common, hearing a question void of snark or sarcasm come out of the lips of the old fellow. Questions on what was going on, what he should do, and if he actually had a brain in his skull was what he was more used to, as well as the shocked “why”s and “what did I do wrong”s that came after Wilson either gave him a sharp retort or physically bullied the man.

“Well…”

Wilson stood up, dusted his claws off of any stray webbing or other such things, dragging them down his trousers, and made his way over to the firepit and Maxwells curled, spindly form. 

“I haven't had any experience with such a thing, so…” Wilson slid down on the log, a fair distance between him and the other man, the fire steady and strong as ever. “I can't quite tell. For all that I know, there is no such thing in the first place, only some delusional malady that afflicts those who believe in it.”

He crossed his arms in his lap, claws tapping his blackened arms as he tilted his head at the former King. Such an odd question to ask.

“...Oh…” Maxwell's voice was quiet like, almost weak and wavering, and he put his head into his hands, dragging his gloved fingers through his aging hairline.

Alright then. Something was obviously up.

Wilson glanced around them, narrowing his eyes as he tried to see if any figures were out there in the darkness. The clones were helpful things, even with their fragile built, but they took tolls on those who summoned them and it wouldn't be the first time Maxwell had overextended himself with them.

But nothing shimmered out there, the eyes he would see usually closed and hidden away for now. They were still there, but he couldn't see them just yet, which was for the better. Working while being watched always led him to making the worst of things and doing the worst of things.

“...We have the green caps, if you need them.” Wilsons gaze slid back over to the curled former King. He always had them on hand, just in case, though he's never seen Maxwell actually eat one.

Well, unless one was specifically thinking about all those obelisk gates and the worlds that went one after another, with him watching and tapping his claws against the Thrones inky arms, waiting for the fool to stumble into the next trap. The shadow clones then were not very much help, especially when they started to twitch and get antsy, turning on their creator in a blink of an eye. Wilson enjoyed that, his whispers into their fuel driven selves so very easy to control.

Nowadays they barely even took notice of him, but that was better than having them go after him as some sort of revenge.

Maxwell held his head in his hands, didn't move for a moment, and Wilson wondered on if the man was seeing eyes in the dark and shadows slipping through the fires light when he straightened up and clasped his hands together, not looking at him at all.

“No no, there's no need.”

His face was drawn, tense, and thoroughly unhappy looking, but he didn't sound unhinged or out of it.

Perhaps, Wilson thought, he was just having a bad day. Or night, to be exact. These colder autumn nights were growing longer and longer now.

“Well, alright then.” Wilson stood up, glancing at the fire to check on if he needed to fuel it, and then looked back once more at the other man. “...You got the answer that you wanted?”

Maxwell nodded, closing his eyes and rubbing his face briefly, looking pained, and Wilson for a moment thought on if he should have answered differently. But, he had answered truthfully, in a way. Love wasn't something he thought about often, if at all. And he had no clue on if it was even a thing that was “real”, has never seen it or experienced it himself.

But then again, never seeing something or experiencing something didn't mean it didn't exist.

“...I may not know much about love, mind you, but-” Wilson scratched his neck, claws careful to not prick himself, trying to not look sheepish or nervous as he tried to think of way to, er, ‘comfort’ the man, “-but, I suppose if faced with it in some aspect, I'd believe in it?”

He sounded uncomfortably unsure, which was about right honestly. However unlikely it was, if someone came around professing their ‘love’ for him, he supposed it'd be a true thing. That wouldn't account for his own feelings, but then again, he's never felt in such a way for anyone before, and he really didn't think he ever would.

His words didn't seem to help Maxwell, but the man did turn to look at him, face unreadable and stiff, eyes as pitch black as always.

They've lost that shiny, cruel aspect to them, dulled now, but still. The Throne has left its mark.

“But then again, I do not know.” Wilson shrugged, a shiver of discomfort going up his spine. He's had his time on the Throne and has learned and changed, but that didn't stop the faint vestiges of fear that still hid in him.

Those times before everything, the times where he had just recently been dragged to this place, still weighed heavily on him. The fear and panic and terror, unhinged and undirected and broken apart, still haunted him at times, and Maxwell's presence did not help in burying those memories. 

The old man had, after all, been a part of the reason why Wilson had been like he had been, a twitchy, fearful little man that had scavenged about as best as he could, talked to birds that he wished to murder and ate his own dead body if food was scarce, dealt with shadows that were latched onto him from the start, not only just the beings of this place. Dragging himself through the trials to the Throne had almost done him in, and seeing some old, bent and tired fellow at the end instead of the man who was always so willing to crush his neck and twist him apart at the seams had practically pushed him over the edge.

The time on the Throne, whispers and the shoving around in his brain, at least helped clear him. A deranged King who did not listen and only screamed was not helpful to Them, so a little push and pull here and there had helped chase the fog away for some puppet more desirable.

He still had nightmares about it, and some nights woke up with his mind all scrambled, thinking he still had a little red bird in a little gold cage and was still camped around that horrid statue that he'd whisper to and still kept terrible flower petals in his pockets, just for him to press to his forehead and breath in their scent when everything felt wrong. 

But that was all in the past now. He wasn't like that anymore.

Wilson tapped his claws against his arms, blackened thick skin and bone talons that reminded him of what was underneath, skin peeled back into twisted abominable skeletal structure, wrong and melded together in the worst of ways, flesh burnt and charred tasting in his mouth.

He wasn't like that anymore.

And, he supposed, looking Maxwell in the eye, the old man wasn't like how he had been anymore either.

**Author's Note:**

> (I once wanted this series to be in chronological order but I don't think I can do that now)
> 
> (Oh well)


End file.
